


Ransom

by idelthoughts



Category: Forever (TV)
Genre: Action, Canon Compliant, Case Fic, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Kidnapping, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-04-01 03:07:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4003492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idelthoughts/pseuds/idelthoughts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When investigating a series of kidnappings, Jo is taken and held for ransom.  Henry can pay the fee, but there's one problem:  he's supposed to be dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This story started out as a prompt fill for the golden request: _Fic, where Jo kidnap, can write?_ The prologue is the prompt fill, and the subsequent chapters grew out of that. Set in the second half of the season, post-Skinny Dipper.
> 
> Warning: while there is no explicit sexual violence in this story, it is referenced in general terms.
> 
> Thank you to aika_max and SpaceCadet72 for their beta help!

The wharfside warehouse smelled musty and ancient. Jo couldn’t see much beyond the two rows of industrial shelving near the rolling door. She pulled the flashlight from her belt and flipped it on, stepping through the doorway and scanning to both sides.

Henry entered after her, his dress shoes scraping on the layer of fine dirt as he swivelled to look around. Deciding to play it safe, Jo unclipped her holster and rested her hand on the butt of the gun. No need to draw it yet, they were only having a look around. 

“I’m starting to think our tip was bad,” Jo said, walking a few paces in and trying to make out anything in the gloom. The shelves were mostly bare, the warehouse looking out of commission. “I don’t think this place has been used recently.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Henry said behind her. When she turned back he was crouched down, head cocked to the side and parallel to the ground as he studied the floor. “The dust has been recently disturbed. Several people have been in and out of this building in the last week.”

A small zipping noise registered a second before a sharp sting in Jo’s arm. She gave a startled cry, grabbing at her bicep.

“Jo, are you alright?” Henry asked, springing up and hustling the few steps to her, and then flinching. “Ah!”

A three-inch long dart protruded from her arm and she ripped it out, brandishing it for Henry to see. Henry was holding a similar one, pulled from his leg. His mouth was gaping open in shock.

“Tranquilizer darts. Like the tranquilizer found in our victim,” he gasped.

“Henry, run!” Jo threw the dart to the ground and leapt forward, shoving at Henry as she drew her weapon.

“Jo, we have two minutes at best before this incapacitates us,” Henry panted as he sprinted at her side. “It’s a paralytic, our muscles will—“

“Then run fast,” Jo grunted. She looked over her shoulder. As yet, no sign of pursuit. They were cowards though, preferring to capture and then ransom their victims—until someone hadn’t paid. Then they’d had a grand old time entertaining themselves. All things she didn’t want to contemplate for herself.

No, she couldn’t think about that now. Run, get help if they could.

She rooted in her pocket for her cell phone, unlocking the screen and quickly dialling Hanson. Her legs were starting to feel like rubber beneath her, but she forced herself to keep moving. Henry was a few steps ahead of her as they tore along the dockside route towards the car. 

“ _Hello?_ ” Hanson’s voice came through the phone as the call connected.

“Mike, we’re at the pier near the Port Authority, at the warehouse we got the tip on. Someone shot at us, Henry and I’ve been tranqued, you need to—“

Henry went down with a surprised cry, and she barely heard Hanson’s tinny voice calling for her attention as she stumbled to a halt, narrowly avoiding tripping over Henry. She tucked the cell in her pocket and crouched down, hooking Henry’s arm.

“Come on,” she said, but when she tried to pull him up she lost her balance, her legs giving out.

“Go,” Henry slurred, falling to his side. He pushed at her ineffectually. “Run, get to the car.”

“No.” She pulled again, and this time Henry managed to stagger to his feet. “C’mon, not far.”

She put his arm over her shoulders, but Henry was crumbling fast. He groaned and collapsed, dragging her down with him. It wasn’t hard, she was losing control of her arms and legs, her body numbing. They ended up sprawled in a pile, Jo half across Henry’s chest, him on his side. 

“Henry,” she managed, but she could barely make it intelligible. 

She could hear the faint noise of her cell phone, the line still active, in her pocket. She tried to grab for her coat pocket, but other than a jerking motion, her arm refused to cooperate. Beneath her she could hear Henry’s frantic heartbeat, the rush of his breathing. The city background hum of was quiet in comparison.

Then, footsteps, two pairs. They closed quickly, and she was pulled and rolled onto her back. The drug had frozen her body, and though she was still aware, her perceptions had a twisted, warped tilt. She tried to struggle, to fight back, anything, but her body completely refused her direction.

“Looks like Belanger did roll over. Get her back to the truck, we’ll take her with us to a new location.”

“What? But we’re not—fine, whatever. And him?”

“I’ll throw him in the water. I don’t want to try and deal with two.”

“But—”

“Go, now!”

Jo tried to shout for them to stop, but her words were slurred and inarticulate. As she was pulled upright she met Henry’s gaze briefly, his eyes shining with desperation, head lolled to the side. He was being dragged to the edge of the pier, the masked, heavily-clothed man’s arms hooked under Henry’s armpits as he pulled his dead weight. She was thrown over the other man’s shoulder. Bitter, frustrated tears leaked from her eyes as she tried to fight against the chemical restraint.

A deep splash—the sound of a body hitting the water. Henry, just as paralyzed as her. She tried to scream but the sound was weak, and she fought with nothing to show for her efforts. She was dumped in the back of a delivery truck and bound with heavy duct tape, then the door shut and left her in the dark. 

_Henry_. Oh god, this was all her fault. She shouldn’t have listened to him, coming here alone, and she shouldn’t have brought him. Henry was dead, and she was just as good as, because there was no one in her life going to pay a ransom like these guys were asking for. The city didn’t buy back its cops. 

The truck started to move and Jo tried to calm herself. She had to save her energy and be ready to fight.


	2. Chapter 2

 

“Get me a trace! I said get me a _goddamned trace_!” Hanson stabbed a finger at the computer bank in the tech room.

Two sergeants were already on it, and he knew they were scrambling to make it happen as best as they could, but none of it was happening fast enough. Even muted and distorted by rustling, the story he was getting from Jo’s end of the call wasn’t a pretty one.

_Get her back to the truck._

Hanson wasn’t the kind of guy for cat and mouse computer game style of police work. Give him a door to kick down or a suspect to rumble, and he could do it. But tell him to wait on the other end of a line until he could get a location for his partner? No, this was not in line with any of his strengths. He pressed the phone tight to his ear, but all he had was the continuous roar of an engine, and over that, the rustling. He couldn’t hear Jo or Henry—no voices, nothing.

_Throw him in the water._

The odds of ever hearing Henry again were low.

Hanson had to force himself to focus. They still had a chance with Jo, and he was going to concentrate on that if they could ever _get the trace working_.

“Come on guys, where is she?” he bellowed.

“Almost got it,” Sergeant Bates responded. The keyboard clacked in rhythmic bursts beneath her flying fingers, and then she gave a cry of triumph. “There—we got her. She’s moving south. Maybe headed for the 278?” She pointed to the city map on the screen and the fat line of the highway cutting across it. Then she cursed softly, tapping at her keyboard again, checking the screens with narrowed eyes.

“What, what’s going on?”

“We’ve lost the signal.”

“What do you mean?” Hanson lowered the phone, leaning over Bates’ shoulder and scanning the map on her screen, despite the fact it was mirrored on the wall panel. “Where is she?”

“Either she’s moved between cell towers, or she’s blocked temporarily.” Bates put a finger on the map. “Given the last direction we had, I think they might be in the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel. We’ll see where the towers pick her up again. You still got a signal on the line?”

Hanson pressed the phone back to his ear, the now-familiar noise choppy and staticky, but still consistent.

“Yeah.”

“Okay—yeah, there we go. Got 'em."

Minutes passed as a cascade of activity spread outward: phone calls to traffic control to get access to their video cameras and identify the make of vehicle they had Jo in, and street patrols put out alerts along their route to have them ready for stopping them once they knew. But it took time, and mustering a response like this out of the NYPD had all the speed and grace of turning a cruise ship around. The signal continued to zip along, then flickered and blinked once more. Hanson held his breath until Bates called out again.

"Picked ‘em up again, far side of the Holland Tunnel. Hey Price, alert the Jersey police, keep them updated if we get the make of that vehicle.”

Price nodded from his station at the phones and started the call. Hanson paced behind them, listening to Price negotiate his way through the phone tree to get the information through to the Jersey police department, yet another bureaucratic challenge.

They could try, but the likelihood of stopping them en route was slim. The best chance they had was to try and get Jo whenever the kidnappers stopped moving. But the longer they had her, the greater the chance something would happen to her. So, he’d leave Price to his phone calls and Bates to her tracking, and Hanson would stay with his ear to the phone, hoping for any hint or clue that would help, wishing he hadn’t let them go alone on this one. But then he’d probably be in the river along with Henry.

A wave of guilt so strong it nearly made his stomach heave hit him, but he shoved it aside. He was here, and at least that meant he could try and do something for Jo. Concentrate on that.

 

***

 

In all the times Henry had died and reawakened in the East River, this was the first time he’d ever _tried_ to get himself arrested.

He wasn’t going to be taking a cab to the precinct in his present nude state, and so the fastest way to get there with any information he could provide on Jo’s kidnappers—and it was precious little, but it was better than nothing—was through the police.

He had to work for it, too. No foot patrols were readily visible along the shore, and so Henry made a sprint for the main street, listening to the various gasps and titters that followed him. He made a careful one-block dodge away from the children’s park. While he was eager to get in touch with the precinct as fast as possible, he had no desire to be branded a pedophile on top of all his other concerns.

After half a block of trotting down the main street, the familiar blue and red flashed in the corner of his vision. He stopped, turning to face the police cruiser that was doing a u-turn through traffic to come over to him, setting two lanes of traffic on either side blaring their horns and screeching to a halt. The cruiser nosed into a loading zone near him and two police officers stepped out onto the curb, hands resting on their guns—and why the police always thought he could present a fight justifying the use of their weapons, dripping wet and stark naked as ever, he’d never understand—and strolled over to him.

“Hey there, going for a run?” one asked, his eyes travelling over Henry, obviously trying not to laugh.

His partner was much less amused, waving away the gawkers who’d stopped to look Henry over. A quick glance told him it was little use. He’d been stopped outside a café, and curious patrons looked through the window, at once trying to maintain their aloof city attitude while obviously watching the drama. She chased off three teenagers with smartphones at the ready, taking pictures while red-faced and giggling. Henry had frequently wondered how many pictures of him were spread across the annals of internet history, and how this would affect his future. Eventually he would have to find himself an isolated cabin to live in, what with the longevity of all this electronic information. His hope was that they would be buried under the mass of quickly accumulating disposable data—that, and that no one would be looking at his face.

“Yes, quick swim, then heading home. I’m training for a triathlon,” Henry rattled off, trying for harmless idiot rather than creepy pervert. There was a certain art to being arrested, and unfortunately, he was something of an expert. He kept his attitude glib and relaxed, even if he felt nothing of the sort. Amazing how being rendered helpless, then murdered while watching your partner dragged away, could put a man off-balance. “My name is Dr. Henry Morgan, I’m a medical examiner for the OCME at the morgue in the NYPD 11th precinct. In the event of further public indecency charges, I’m to be immediately reported to Lieutenant Joanna Reece, my official police liaison with the Homicide Division.”

The two officers exchanged a meaningful glance, then the man pulled the handcuffs from his belt, shaking his head.

“Okay, repeat customer. You know the drill, then. Hands behind your—“ he cleared his throat, the corner of his mouth twitching, but he soldiered on. “Hands behind your head.”

Henry complied, exposing himself and setting another round of murmurs and laughter going from their impromptu audience, and was guided into the police car. When the two cops settled into the front seat, Henry leaned forward.

“Lieutenant Reece was extremely clear that I was to report myself immediately should I be arrested again.”

He was pushing, which was never a good idea. Beat cops could be a contrary sort, refusing any request or suggestion on pure principle alone, but the faster he could get any information to the precinct on Jo’s kidnappers, the better. Not that he had much—vague descriptions of height and weight, and the hint of a blond ponytail from beneath the heavy balaclava of the man who’d thrown Jo over his shoulder, letting her arms dangle limply down his back as he walked away.

The man looked to his partner, and there was a brief quiet conference before she shrugged and grabbed her radio.

“Gotta call it in anyway, might as well.” She looked back over her shoulder. “If you’re that excited about losing your job, least we can do is help you get it over with quick.”

“Thank you.” Henry leaned back against the seat and took a deep breath, trying to calm himself.

“First time I’ve ever been thanked for arresting someone,” the man muttered, pulling out into traffic.

 

***

 

_Move, move, come on, move…_

Jo tried again to shift her feet, but they wouldn’t obey her. The van vibrated around her, but it was nothing but a deep hum in her bones—her skin felt dead, her outer senses as numb as her limbs. She knew tears were leaking out, but only because her eyes were blurred and cloudy with them.

As time wore on she started to get a little feeling back, and her fingers twitched when she forced all her concentration to the task. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

They hit a bump and Jo rolled onto her front, unable to stop herself from knocking her cheek and nose against the metal floor. She startled internally when a hand grabbed her arm and pulled her back to her side, sparing her the indignity of drooling face-down. She strained to look, catching a glimpse of a large figure dressed in black.

She wanted to pull away from the hand steadying her as the van bounced and rocked over uneven ground. Potholes? Speed bumps? She couldn’t tell.

Jo tried to tell the man to let go—no, she would have been much more colourful in her phrasing than that if she could have managed it—but all that came out was a garbled, slurred series of syllables. She cringed when she was tugged over onto her back, and she blinked up at the masked face leaning over her. From what skin she could see through the wide eye holes of the balaclava, the man was fair with a sprinkling of freckles. He was blue-eyed, and the tips of white blond hair pulled back in a ponytail stuck out from the back of the neck. He was sturdy and large enough that he looked like a viking, with squinting lines around his eyes as he looked down at her.

He put hands on her face and pushed up her eyelids with his thumbs to look in her eyes. That done he pressed thick fingers to her neck, moving to find her pulse and counting it off before releasing her and moving back away from her.

The van was coming to a stop, and she managed to roll her head towards him and saw that he was opening the back doors of the van. She couldn’t make out anything behind him—evening sky, some clouds, but her vantage point was too low to see anything significant. The van rocked with the weight of a person stepping in, and her line of sight was filled with another man.

He was as big as the first, broad chested and obviously muscular beneath the black sweatshirt and heavy jacket that strained over him. The same pale blue eyes, the same in size and shape as his colleague.

“So, let’s see who we’ve got.”

The newcomer crouched over her, taking her face in his large hand and shifting it so he could look at her. She tried to pull away, a loud wordless grunt all she could make, but he didn’t acknowledge her. He pushed aside her jacket, running a hand over the side of her ribs until he hit her belt. It was like he was surveying an animal, without any regard for her whatsoever. Her skin was crawling, straight past anger into pure, instinctive fear as her mind flashed on the pictures of their last victim. She tried to shift again, without success. The man ignored her struggle and pulled off her badge.

“Police,” he grunted, rubbing his thumb over the metal.

“We should have left her,” the first man said.

He only made a small acknowledging noise in response, seemingly uninterested in the comment as his eyes travelled over Jo’s body.

And then, a noise from her pocket. A set of beeps. Both men tensed, and the man over her rifled her pockets, pulling out the phone. He looked at the call display for a moment, and then, with his eyes focused on Jo, he lifted it to his ear.

“Hello?” he said into it.

Her phone was still connected—there was a chance they’d tracked her location. In her disorientation she’d forgotten all about the phone in her pocket, about Hanson calling out to her as she’d collapsed on Henry—Henry, who’d been dragged away… Oh, _Henry._

Jo prayed they already knew where she was and were on the way. Maybe she would get out of this alive. And if she didn’t, that at least these two bastards would be caught, because they had far too much to answer for.

She let herself hope, because it was the only thing keeping her from losing her mind in fear.

 

***

 

“Detective Hanson? They’re slowing down. I think they’re stopping.”

The trace had blipped in and out twice more, each time leaving Hanson with the heart-stopping worry that it wouldn’t come back, but finally they were getting somewhere.

“Okay, get this info to the Jersey police. Tell them to keep back, but get eyes on the vehicle if they can.”

Price nodded, back on the phone again before Hanson finished speaking, murmuring low while the buzz of Jo’s cell connection, now on speaker, filled the room. The hum had decreased in volume as the vehicle slowed, and there was a loud bang and muffled noises—voices, perhaps. Hanson strained to listen and make anything out, but it was all indistinct.

And then, a loud double beep. With the volume turned up in an effort to discern anything out of the white noise, it was shrill and nearly deafening.

“What’s that?” Hanson asked, looking to Bates. “Is that us?”

“No, not our end,” Bates said, tweaking the settings on the speaker connection to the phone. Then she covered her mouth, wincing. “Oh, _shit_. I think that’s her cell battery dying.”

Not good. Damn it, _really_ not good.

“Where are the Jersey people?” Hanson asked Price.

Price relayed the question to his contact over the phone, then covered the receiver as he turned to Hanson. He shook his head.

“At least 10 minutes out still.”

Another set of beeps, and then a deafening rustling. Bates dialled back the volume as they all cringed at the noise. A male voice came over the speakers.

_“Hello?”_

Everyone in the room held their breath. The loud voice cut through the hum of the detectives’ bullpen and silence spread, heads turning and people turning their attention towards the tech room. Hanson rubbed a hand over his chin, the thrill of nerves running through him, momentarily stymied for what to do. Where was the lieutenant? If this was the start of hostage negotiations, she’d be way better at running this than him. He’d seen her headed for the elevator five minutes ago, and she still wasn’t back.

“Who’s this?” he asked.

 _“I presume I’m speaking with the police?”_ came the response. Male, slight hint of a midwestern accent, but not strong.

“That’s right,” Hanson said, nodding, pacing the length of the room. “Detective Michael Hanson, NYPD.”

_“And the lady I have here, what’s her name? Usually we get to know our guests before they arrive, but she invited herself to the party.”_

Bates waved a hand to gather Hanson’s attention, and he looked down at her.

“They’re on the move again,” she whispered.

Price nodded, and murmured quietly into the phone to the Jersey police coordinator.

Hanson swivelled around towards the opposite side of the bullpen, scanning for the lieutenant. He had no idea how much information to give this guy, or what he should be doing. He was no hostage negotiator. Where the hell was the lieutenant? He snapped his fingers to get the attention of one of the uniformed sergeants on the floor, catching Iweala’s attention. He mouthed obviously for him to find Reece, and Iweala nodded and hustled for the elevators.

 _“Detective, I asked you a question.”_ The voice went cold, the humorous light tone abruptly gone.

“Uh, Detective Martinez. Jo Martinez.”

_“Jo. Lovely name.”_

Hanson ground his teeth, but kept his temper in check.

“Is she alright?”

_“Still under the effects of the tranquilizers. I’m certain she’ll be back to her old self in no time. Won’t you?”_

The last was clearly said to Jo, the voice shifting away from the speaker a little, the tone falling to a gentle, soothing tone. Hanson winced, tamping down the instinctive surge of threats that bubbled up at those words. He’d seen the pictures of the last woman who’d been dumped after her family didn’t pay up in time. The idea of that happening to Jo—that kind of violence, that sort of… He took a deep breath and tried to focus.

“And who am I talking to?”

 _“Not important.”_ Two more loud beeps came through the phone. _“Our time is short, it seems. Well, a pleasure speaking with you, Detective.”_

“Wait!” Hanson blurted, sensing the impending disconnection. “What do you want? I mean, aren’t you…”

Hanson blundered to a stop. He had no authority to negotiate on behalf of the police, no money to give, but he couldn’t just give up.

There was a long pause from the other end, and Hanson prayed they hadn’t already decided to hang up.

 _“I presume you’re familiar with our terms?”_ It was almost pitying.

Five million dollars, payable within twenty-four hours of initial contact. One person for a drop, no cops. Hanson knew the drill, had spent the last two weeks investigating the victim who had died at their hands, and tracking down and talking with the four who had survived and eventually come forward after their ordeal.

“Maybe we can talk it over.”

The silence was brief, and then a sigh.

_“I think this is a fruitless conversation, isn’t it? Jo here is, ultimately, a city employee. And while New York does try its best, I doubt very much there’s a budget line item available to pay my fee.”_

Hanson swallowed heavily.Goddamn it, he was right.What was he supposed to do now?

Where the _hell_ was Reece?

 

***

 

Lieutenant Reece was waiting on the sidewalk outside the precinct when the squad car rolled up, police-issue sweatshirt and sweatpants in hand. The two officers hopped out to speak with her briefly, and then the back door opened. Reece stuck her hand in with the clothes without looking.

“Get dressed.” She was terse and short, and though Henry could only see her from the shoulders down, it was quite clear she was furious.

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

He took the clothes and hastily pulled them on, then climbed out of the car. Reece wordlessly pointed to the main doors of the precinct, and he started in, padding barefoot towards the building.

“I’ll take it from here. Thank you,” Reece said behind him to the two officers, and then she followed him.

Henry waited to hold the door for her. She was silent until they made it into the elevator, and then turned on him.

“What the hell is going on? You’re being brought to me like _this_?”

“Lieutenant,” he started, but she held up her hand to silence him.

“Henry, shut up.”

He closed his mouth, conceding to the fact that the fastest route through this would be to let her say her piece. He bowed his head, formally indicating he would do as she ordered, and waited for her to continue. He refused to admit to himself he was nervous facing her down.

“I doubt you’re going to tell me the truth anyway, so skip it. What I need now is any information you have on Detective Martinez. We’ve got a trace on her, but I need anything you saw or heard.  Just tell me what you know.”

“There were two of them,”Henry said, grateful to skate past the topic.“Masked.One had long blond hair.They were both tall, at least 6’3”.Broad, but fit.”

“Did you see their vehicle?”

“I saw a dark blue, possibly black van before I was—“ Henry rephrased the thought quickly, trying not to verbally stumble more than necessary, “—couldn’t see them any longer.”He recalled Reece’s earlier words and frowned, confused.“Wait, how have you traced her?”

“She was on the phone with Hanson, and the call stayed connected.We’ve been tracking it.”

Henry licked his lips nervously.They’d been listening the entire time?

“Were you able to—er, get anything useful from the call?”

“We heard them threaten to throw you in the water,”Reece said, and her attitude softened, her concern visible.“Henry, what happened out there?”

“I…”He stared at her, mouth open, grasping for an answer. 

Damn, he had _nothing_.His heart was thundering.Reece waited, watching him.

Henry started at the elevator’s ding announcing their arrival, and he quickly turned from Reece.The elevator doors slid open to reveal Sergeant Iweala, who was already taking a step to enter.Iweala stopped and his eyes widened.

“Lieutenant!Hanson sent me to find you.He’s got the kidnappers on the phone.”

Reece didn’t take the time to respond, immediately pushing past Iweala and running for the bullpen.Henry jogged behind her, trying to manage his panic.He had a brief reprieve from her questions, but they would come back to haunt him later.He would have to figure something out.

As they neared, Henry could hear the sounds of a male voice piped over the speakers, and Hanson’s voice responding.They rounded the corner to find the entire department assembled, listening to he interaction.

_“And while New York does try its best, I doubt very much there’s a budget line item available to pay my fee.”_

The fee.Five million dollars, demanded for each victim.They were going to take ransom for Jo?Henry’s heart lurched with hope.There was a chance!

_“I’m sorry Detective Hanson, it seems—”_

“We can pay!” Henry blurted loudly.

He shouldered past Reece and started sprinting towards the tech room where Hanson was conducting the call.

 

***

 

“We can pay!”  

Hanson swivelled around at the loud outburst behind him, at the sharp, clipped tone he’d recognize in his sleep.  Sprinting across the bullpen was Henry, barefoot and clad in police sweats, Reece trailing behind him.  He stumbled into the tech room, nearly running pell-mell into the table as he ground to a halt.  

“We can pay,”  Henry panted.  “Five million dollars, as requested.  Just give us the drop location, I’ll be there with the money.  We can pay!”

Hanson grabbed Henry by the shoulder, fisting the sweatshirt in his hand and shaking him.  

“Henry, what the hell are you—“

 _“Who is this?”_ asked the man on the phone.  Suspicion coloured his voice, the note of hesitancy obvious.

“A friend.  I have the means, and am personally taking responsibility for payment.  This has nothing to do with the police.  I will take care of it.”  Henry shrugged free of Hanson’s grip.  “I’m familiar with your requirements.”

 _“Well, that’s quite a friend,”_ came the reply, cautious enough that Hanson feared they’d refuse.The man paused, the microphone muffled for a moment and some words from someone nearby, then uncovered again.   _“You understand the consequences of any mistakes?”_

Lieutenant Reece stepped into the tech room, and Hanson looked to her for answers.  She shook her head and raised her hands in a helpless gesture, looking as concerned as he was.He took a breath to speak, but she held a finger to her lips, indicating that they should let Henry talk.

“Yes, I do.  I assure you, I will abide by your standard agreement.”

 _“Then we will be in touch to let you know the details of the drop.”_  He laughed lightly.   _“And if you see Belanger, tell him to enjoy the prison food.”_

A click, and the line disconnected.  Bates swore loudly, then flopped back in her seat, pushing the keyboard away from her in disgust.

“The trace is gone.  Probably killed the phone.”

Hanson looked at Henry, hands on his hips.

“Alright, for a dead man you’re looking pretty spry,”  he said, trying to cover his shaking voice.  “You wanna tell me what’s going on?”

“I’d like to make some phone calls first, if I may.  I have a lot of arrangements to make in a very short amount of time, given it's almost the end of the business day,”  Henry answered.  He looked to Lieutenant Reece for permission.

“Henry, is this a real offer?” she asked.

Henry nodded vigorously.

“Yes.I can do it.I will do it.”

“Wait—are you telling me you’ve actually got that much money?  You can just—what, pull together five million for this deal?”Hanson asked, incredulous. 

Henry shifted uneasily on his bare feet.

“Yes.  I believe I can manage it. It will be close, but at last estimate I believe it’s somewhere in that neighbourhood.”

Hanson exchanged a look with Reece, who folded her arms and returned her attention to Henry.

“How long will you need, Doctor?”

“By tomorrow morning I’m certain I can have everything arranged.”

Reece pursed her lips, assessing Henry for a moment, before she nodded and waved a hand to dismiss him.

“Go.Do what you need to do, then tell me what need from us.”

“Thank you.I need to contact Abe, and I’ll let you know.”

Hanson watched Henry trot off to find a phone to call his roommate, or business partner, or whatever Abe was. Hanson still didn’t know the whole story there, but Henry’s list of mysteries was low priority right now. Someday, however, Hanson was going to hold the man down until he answered the laundry list of questions that he’d racked up.

“I’m going to contact the Major Case Squad detectives we’ve been liaising with, give them an update on the situation,” Reece said to Hanson. “Maybe we can use this to finally get to these guys.”

Hanson looked at the lieutenant, personal objections warring with the common sense of the job. Sure, these creeps had safely delivered back all the girls they’d taken whose families had followed the rules, but the last hadn’t been so lucky, and now it was clear they weren’t going to stop. Even if it put Jo at risk, they had to be stopped.

Which meant tracking devices, agents on the ground around the drop, and traceable ransom money. Hanson had a feeling Henry wasn’t going to like this at all. Most of the families who had paid had done so quietly without contacting the police prior. Some had come forward afterwards, and the others had been determined during the course of the investigation.

“We’ll get her back,” Reece said quietly, then left for her office.

After a moment’s hesitation, Hanson followed her to listen in on the conversation with the Major Case Squad people. If there was going to be a drop, that meant setting up the sting. Given that it was Jo’s life at risk if this went wrong, Hanson was damned well going to make sure that it was set up right.

 

***

 

Jo’s phone dropped to the van floor a foot from her head, and her kidnapper’s boot heel smashed down into it, destroying it.  He called through the grill separating the back of the van from the cab.

“The deal is on.”

“Are you kidding me?  Where—”

“We’ll improvise.”

The man with the ponytail made an unhappy noise from the driver’s seat, but continued driving without further argument.  Jo instinctively braced herself against a large bump, and found that her legs responded.  Not that it did her good, they were taped together securely with duct tape.

She cringed when a large hand patted her head, fingers capturing strands of her hair and feeling them.

“Looks like you’ve got a patron, sweetheart.”

Jo had heard the conversation, and wondered who was able to dredge up that much money for her, but she had to be realistic.  This was a play to catch the kidnappers.  Hanson would probably do it if he had more than a mortgage and credit card debt to give, but there was no way anyone was really putting up the cash.  She had to wait and see how successful an operation they were going to pull.  Even on the back foot and improvising, her kidnappers were organized and efficient.  They were also swift to make their decision on killing—no, torturing and abusing, _then_ killing—their victim once the deal was ruined.

Jo closed her eyes, trying to ignore the fingers in her hair.  She’d save her strength, and fight when she could.


	3. Chapter 3

Henry put the phone receiver back on its cradle, ending the call with the financial advisor he’d never met before. All his banking was done by paper—phone when absolutely necessary—so as to lengthen the amount of time he could work with investment companies. However, it seemed that such a large and immediate liquidation required his in-person attendance.

He left most of the financial details to Abe. His understanding of the unwieldy system of his investments and savings was sketchy at best, and he only involved himself as much as was absolutely necessary. Theoretically the money was there, he’d seen the portfolios that came through the house once a year, but pulling it all together in such a short time—

“Knock knock.”

Henry looked up from his desk to see Abe standing in the doorway to his office with a suit bag in one hand, and a small gym bag over his shoulder.

“Brought you a present,” Abe said, hefting the bags.

Henry stood and came around the desk to greet him, taking the two items gratefully.

“Thank you, Abe. I appreciate you coming on such short notice.”

Abe stepped into the office and the door shut behind him. Henry laid the suit bag on his desk, unzipping it and pulling out the suit and tie, and his shoes and other necessaries from the duffel bag. Forgoing modesty in favour of speed, Henry drew the long blinds to his office and set to changing into his clothes. Abe raised an eyebrow and turned away to give Henry privacy.

“Everything okay, Henry?”

“If we act quickly, it will be,” Henry said, pulling off the baggy sweats and grabbing up his proper clothes. A shower would have been lovely, but best to move on as fast as possible. “I’ll need some signatures from you, and we’ll need to attend a few meetings to soothe some very concerned investment advisors. I need to pull together a large sum by tomorrow morning.”

“How large is large?”

“Five million dollars.”

Abe swivelled around at that as Henry was buttoning up his trousers, his bushy eyebrows crawling up his forehead.

“Five million! What’s going on?”

“Jo’s been kidnapped. It’s ransom.”

Abe gaped for a moment, then understanding dawned.

“Is this that kidnapping racket that’s been going on for months now?”

Henry nodded, covering his undershirt with a crisp cream coloured dress shirt and working on the buttons.

“Yes, the same. Given that the NYPD is not going to provide payment, and Jo’s family is hardly wealthy—I doubt even with a lawyer as her late husband, and if it were possible to liquidate all her assets so quickly, house and all—that she’d be able to finance such a cost herself. I, however, have access to a rather large and accessible pot of money.”

“Yeah, you do,” Abe agreed with a frown. “And that’s more or less all of it.”

“Yes, it is, but I have lifetimes to accumulate it again. I have the means and the ability, so I’ll pay the sum in exchange for Jo’s life. Given the way these kidnappers have worked before, so long as their rules are abided by, they will return her unharmed. I can only hope they’ll do the same again. They’ve given every indication that they will. I presided over the autopsy of the victim whose family did not pay in time, and I will _not_ allow that to become Jo’s fate.”

Abe picked up Henry’s jacket and held it for him, helping him shrug into it.

“Sure, whatever you need, I’ll help. But the NYPD guest outfit?” Abe said, referring to the police-issued sweatsuit Henry had cast onto the chair by his desk. “What happened?”

“Ah,” Henry said, grimacing. And there was the difficult catch in all of this. “The kidnappers killed me. Threw me, paralyzed, into the water. I don’t think Jo directly saw, and I doubt the event could be confirmed other than by my murderer, but it’s all a little complicated. For now, Lieutenant Reece has granted me amnesty on explaining myself, and after that, I’m not sure. I’ll deal with it when the time comes.”

“Well, I guess we’d better be ready to play this either way, depending how it goes,” Abe said as he watched Henry tidy up the garment bag and duffel.

Henry paused, his mouth dry. There would be no avoiding the conversation eventually, but with luck, Henry could get Jo released before any concrete facts surrounding his death surfaced. If he needed to leave at that point, he could.

“Yes. In the meantime, I’ll concentrate on getting Jo back.”

 

***

 

Hanson pulled up in front of the uptown high rise and a valet came to the vehicle to peer inside at him curiously. He pulled his badge, flashing it through the passenger window, and the valet nodded and directed him to a loading zone at the corner of the building.

By the time he made it to the front of the building, Alexander Rimenov, father of the most recent kidnapping victim—most recent _surviving_ victim, Hanson reminded himself—was waiting for him in at the front door of the building.

He offered his hand and Hanson shook it.

“Thanks for seeing me on such short notice, Mr. Rimenov.”

“Alex is fine,” he responded quickly. He shifted uneasily, very obviously telegraphing how little he wanted to have Hanson there. He ducked his head close to Hanson so that the nearby valet wouldn’t hear. “Is this absolutely necessary? She’s already spoken with your officers on her—her experience. It’s gotten better over the month since the kidnapping, but my daughter is still very easily upset.”

“We’ve got a shot at catching these guys,” Hanson said quietly, trying to reassure Alex with all the confidence he didn’t feel. “I want to make sure we didn’t miss anything vital that could make a difference. I’ll make sure we take it slow.”

Alex hesitantly nodded, and then ushered Hanson into the lobby and up towards the penthouse floor in tight-lipped silence.

Hanson had started the morning out talking to Belanger, the guy they’d brought in. He’d obviously been a patsy from the start, a shield that the kidnappers had as a failsafe should someone try to mess with their ransom drop system. He’d only spoken to his bosses a handful of times, enough to receive his orders. They’d found a big fat bank account with his name on it, a good ten percent cut of each ransom that was more than enough to soothe any twinges of conscience. After an hour which had nearly ended with Hanson’s fist through the man’s teeth, Hanson had given up getting anything from him and pursued the Rimenov family instead, the only one of the surviving victims’ families who would take his call.

It was obvious why the family had been targeted—the penthouse was huge, with all the ostentatious yet tasteful trappings that screamed wealth. He followed Alex into the living room, which had a wall of windows facing west, filling the room with the slanted evening sunshine. In the middle of the sitting area, a woman in her late twenties paced around a low coffee table, hand pressed to her forehead, while an older woman watched her from the sofa. Alexa, the kidnapping victim, and her mother, Maria.

Alexa had dark hair down around her shoulders, swinging loose as she spun to face Hanson. A lot like Jo’s hair, Hanson automatically noted, and he cringed internally. He didn’t want his thoughts to go there, but with the string of dark-haired women the kidnappers had taken, it was clear they had a specific type.

Hanson nodded politely to the two women.

“Detective Hanson, NYPD Homicide.”

“Homicide?” Maria asked. “Did they kill someone else?”

“No, they took my partner,” he said, hands on his hips. “Which is why I’m here. With her on the inside, we’ve got a chance to set this up so we can get these guys. I’m sorry to ask you to go over this again, but if there’s anything you might have that could help us set this up, anything at all, it could help us get them.”

Behind him, Alexander spoke up.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said. “They have your statement.”

“Give it a rest, Dad,” she snapped, voice and stance filled with frustration and nerves. She put a hand back to her forehead for a moment, then dropped it. “Sorry. It’s fine. Detective, have a seat.”

Hanson took a spot in an armchair, one that matched the set. It was stiff and unyielding, probably like everything else in the house, designed for its beauty and appearance rather than comfort.

“Thanks, I appreciate it.”

Alexa was clearly the family treasure—her dad’s name, mementos of her childhood and teenaged accomplishments littering the apartment, airbrushed posed professional portraits adorning the walls. Yeah, Hanson would bet her parents had the money in a bag before the phone call was even so much as done. They hadn’t reported it to the police at all, a friend of the family had tipped off the NYPD six days after the event, by which time any trail had long since gone cold.

“What do you want to know?”

“Biggest thing right now is anything you can tell me about the kidnappers themselves. Physical appearance, method, personality. They’ve moved locations, so we want to try and get a read on their system, any weaknesses.”

“Well, there were three of them,” Alexa said, trying to relax back into the couch, crossing her legs. “I only saw the other two one time, when they first took me to…to wherever they had me, I still don’t know. They had balaclavas on, I couldn’t see their faces. They were huge, though—tall guys, big. Otherwise it was this guy—grey hair, kind of short and stocky.”

“Belanger,” Hanson said with a nod, and the family members all shifted with surprise. “Yeah, we caught him at the last kidnapping attempt.”

“The one where the young woman died,” Maria said coldly, accusation laid thick.

The silence that fell over the four of them was heavy with the understanding that Alexa could easily have been the body they’d recovered from the dockyard, abused and mutilated.

Hanson tapped the pencil against the pad of paper.

“Like I said I only saw the other two once.” Alexa said into the silence after a while. She folded her arms tight across her body, brow furrowed and mouth tight as though trying not to cry. “The one guy was… He was the one that told me they would leave me alone so long as I took care of myself. For—for whatever happened next. Said I should stay in ‘prime condition.’ He was...” She closed her eyes, lip trembling as she turned her face away. “He was the one I was afraid of.”

Hanson nodded and poised his pencil.

“Whatever you can think of, it’s helpful. How they looked, how they sounded, anything.”

Alexa nodded, and one of her hands went to her side and sought out her mother’s.

“I’ll tell you what I can.”

 

***

 

Jo stared at the array of beauty products on the bathroom counter. Makeup, hair mousse, gel, wax, face masks and expensive scrubs, body lotion—you name it, it was there.

They’d blindfolded her in the van, and as her limbs were just starting to function they bundled her into a carpet and carried her into an elevator. She recognized the stomach-dropping sensation of rising up, and some indeterminate number of seconds later, she’d been deposited on the floor with some care and freed from her impromptu prison. A bare room, with a sturdy single bed in the corner, inset soft lighting in the ceiling, a bland watercolour of a field of violets on the wall, and an attached en suite bathroom with walk in shower with curtain, toilet, and sink.

“Normally I tell our guests that this is for their comfort and to maintain their appearance, but in your case we may return you in better condition than you left.” The man who’d conducted the phone call scanned her over, his eyes and skin startlingly bright against the black of the balaclava over his face.

She didn’t respond, trying not to visibly shudder as she stood quietly by the bathroom sink, as far as she could possibly get from the creep. The other one with the ponytail was in the apartment beyond, the odd thump and scrape all she could hear of his activity.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” he said, and pulled the door closed.

Immediately Jo made a dash for the door as soon as it was closed. She gave the door knob a good twist and rattle. Locked, of course.

A windowless room. Great. She held still for a moment, hands outstretched and listening. There was airflow, and she tracked the gentle currents to the air vents in the bathroom ceiling, above the toilet area. Far too small to crawl through, but she stood on the toilet and put her face as close to the grill as she could.

“Hey!” she shouted into the vent. “Hello, can anyone hear me? I’m a police officer with the NYPD, I am being held against my will! Hello, can anyone hear me? I need help!”

Behind her, a thump, and then the bang of the door and heavy footsteps. Jo’s heart exploded with fear, but she drew another breath and bellowed as loud as she could.

“Please help, I’m being held against my will, I—“

She was cut off when a large hand wrapped over her face and another grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked. She lost her footing on the smooth lid of the toilet and fell back against the broad chest of her attacker. She clasped her hands together and drove her elbow backwards, then stomped down on a foot. A satisfying grunt of pain met both attacks. She writhed in his hold but he didn’t let go, wrenching her neck painfully as he dragged her from the bathroom. He knocked her down and pinned her to the floor.

His mask was off. Short cropped white blond hair, a pale and freckled complexion gone red and blotchy as he snarled furiously at her, ignoring her attempts to beat at his head and neck.

“Let go of me you son of a bitch! Let—”

He got a forearm to her throat and she choked. He pressed until dark spots threatened to take over her vision, and only when her blows started to lose their strength did he let up.

“You are going to keep your mouth shut,” he spat, “are we clear?”

She could barely breathe as she scratched frantically at his face. It made no difference, he was the size of a linebacker and had her pinned, feeling twice her weight as he crushed her ribs.

“Are we clear?” he shouted again.

“Marcus! Get off her!”

Her attacker, Marcus, jerked back as the other kidnapper grabbed him by the back of the shirt, hauling him off Jo.

Jo sucked in a gulping breath and coughed violently. She rolled to her side and away from them, scrambling away until her back hit a wall, the ugly watercolour painting over her head thumping as she struck it. She rubbed at her neck, eyeing the two of them as they faced each other.

Marcus shoved at the other with a snarl.

“‘ _Marcus_ , get off her,’” he sneered, the tone of his voice furiously snide, pointing out the use of his name. “How about you shut up, _Oliver_.”

Marcus then grabbed for Oliver’s balaclava, snatching at it. They tussled briefly until it came off. They glared at each other and then Oliver glanced at Jo. Even with Oliver’s long hair and the thick beard he sported, they were shockingly similar in appearance. Twins, they had to be.

“Clean yourself up,” Marcus snapped at her. “No more shouting or I gag you and tie you, and I’ll do it myself.”

Marcus raised his eyebrows when she didn’t respond, and took a menacing step towards her. Though Oliver tensed and looked like he might intervene again, he didn’t move to intercept.

Jo pressed her back tighter to the wall, curling her knees up to her chest. Despite her resolve to not let their intimidation work on her, she nodded once that she understood. Pointless defiance for defiance’s sake alone wasn’t going to help. For now she needed a chance to regroup, gather her strength, and think. She was still disoriented from the tranquilizer, and in no condition to put up another fight.

Marcus left the room, brushing past Oliver without looking at either of them. Oliver gave her a last look and turned to go as well. Sensing a small chance at capitalizing on the disagreement between the two, she called out to him softly.

“Wait.” Oliver paused. She licked her lips, forcing words past her bruised throat. “Thank you.”

Oliver frowned at her, then grunted an acceptance of her thanks, and left, shutting and locking the door behind him.

As Jo rubbed at her throat, she wondered if she might have a foot in the door with that one. She’d have to see what she could do. She didn’t have much time, if this was going to go the same way as the others. A tight twenty-four hour cycle from initial kidnapping to money drop and release. Whatever the plan with the ransom for Jo was, if it went sour, she’d be on her own, and it might come down to finding her own way out of this.

But first, apparently, a shower. Jo hauled herself to her feet, ignoring her trembling limbs as she focused on the simple, concrete task ahead of her.


	4. Chapter 4

Abe took a bite of toast as he eyed the two large black bags, unzipped, their contents exposed, that Henry placed next to the breakfast table. Henry sat across from Abe, similarly drawn by the daunting amount.

It had been lifetimes since Henry had seen this much money in one place, an experience limited to the dealings in gold bullion his father had with his shipping company, deals that Henry had been privy to before he’d left the family business to pursue medicine. Cash lacked some of the magical lure of gold, but all the same, five million dollars in one place was a sight.

“Seems like we should, I dunno, throw it on the floor and roll around in it or something,” Abe said after he swallowed his mouthful.

“It’s only money,” Henry reprimanded him gently, half chastising himself for being anything more than coolly practical in the face of such a large sum. “And the sooner I’m rid of it, the happier I’ll be.”

“This isn’t your fault, Henry.”

Abe peered at him across the table. Henry pulled at the napkin by his plate and spread it on his lap to avoid Abe’s concern.

“It doesn’t change the fact that I _feel_ responsible, having been the one who suggested we investigate, pressing the matter so that we were there without backup. I walked her into a trap.”

“She’ll be okay. She’s a tough cookie, she’ll get through this.”

Henry smiled at the blind faith. With his own jitters having kept him up most of the night, Abe’s unshakable reassurance was soothing.

“Thank you, Abe.”

They finished breakfast as the call from Henry’s police escort came, and Henry took the bags down to the street and climbed into the police cruiser. A far cry from his trip to the precinct the prior day, dripping wet and nude, he was instead bracketed by the heavy bags, dwelling on the case details he’d read up on during his sleepless hours.

The money drops always took place in a public area, near a fountain to mask any wiretap attempts. That was likely to be the same again. The exchange had always been with Belanger, wearing a different wig and prosthetic nose to mask his appearance, and Henry had no idea what they would do now that their go-between was arrested. Would they have had time to find a new mule in the few days since Belanger’s arrest? Or would one of the masterminds expose themselves to make the trade?

By the time he made it to the precinct it was almost nine, and the Homicide department was in full swing, members of the Major Case Squad coordinating with them. Hanson was on the phone when Henry walked in, bags in hand, still escorted by the two uniformed police officers.

“Let me talk to her,” Hanson was saying. “Give me proof she’s okay.”

A space, and then a pinched look on Hanson’s face that said the conversation was not going the way he wanted. He paced, listening, then sighed.

“Fine. Okay, he’s not here yet, but—wait. Just a sec.”

Hanson spotted Henry and beckoned him over, covering the phone microphone, then offered it to Henry.

“Ransom instructions,” Hanson said quietly. “Get whatever details you can, keep him talking as much as you can, okay?”

Henry set the bags down at his feet and took the phone.

“Hello?”

_“Hello again. I don’t believe I took your name yesterday.”_

The excruciatingly polite voice was so falsely conversational and jovial that Henry had to bite his tongue from snapping at him to try and break the façade. Antagonizing the man would do Jo no favours.

“Call me Henry,” he said.

_“You’ve made your arrangements, Henry?”_

“Yes.”

_“So efficient. The exchange will take place at Columbus Park, by the fountain, in two hours. Leave your police friends behind. No markers on the money, no recording devices, no observation. Do you understand?”_

“Yes, I do.” Henry glanced at Hanson, who was making a tumbling motion with his hands, encouraging Henry to keep the conversation going. “And how will I know the person I am to meet?”

_“I think you’ll be easy enough to spot. Tell me how many bags you will be carrying?”_

“Two. Black canvas, over the shoulder.”

 _“See? Very distinct.”_ There was a pause, then, _“Keep in mind the consequences if you have any change of heart on the details of our plan.”_

“No! No, everything is—I’ll do as you say,” Henry said quickly. He had learned over the years that while there were times to fight, with some people there was no use in it. Give them what they wanted, then get away as fast as possible. “It’s not a problem.”

_“Two hours.”_

A click, and the line went dead. Henry lowered the phone and gave it back to Hanson, who pulled the cords from it that had been feeding the cell call into the monitoring equipment.

“Okay, two hours, people!” Henry started, turning around to see a short woman with chin-length greying hair bellowing to the assembled team of unfamiliar faces mixed in among the detectives he knew. “Get the trackers into these bags, and make it fast.” Her orders given, she turned to Henry and stuck out her hand. “Doctor Morgan, Lieutenant Linda Valles, Major Case Squad. Thank you for your help on this.”

Henry didn’t take her hand. Beside him, Hanson had his hands stuffed into his trouser pockets as he looked at the bags near Henry’s feet with a glum expression.

“What’s going on?” Henry demanded. “What is this?”

“Henry, this is an opportunity,” Hanson said, looking up to meet his eye. “I don’t like it any more than you, but Jo’s a cop. We can’t put a citizen at risk, but Jo knows the score—she’ll expect us to make a play for these guys. She’d want to take the risk if it means stopping these kidnappings.”

In the corner of his eye, Lieutenant Valles was beckoning to two of her people, but Henry stooped and picked up the bags, taking a step back from the others. Valles set her hands on her hips, glancing between Henry and Hanson.

“No,” Henry said, shaking his head adamantly. “No, that will put Jo’s safety in jeopardy. If it doesn’t work, her life is forfeit. However, if we give them the money, they give her back. There’s no reason to complicate this.”

“Dr. Morgan, I understand your concern,” Valles said soothingly. “But we’ve arranged for as lightweight and unobtrusive a transmitter as we could. It’ll give us the head start we need to locate Martinez, and then we’ll have people on her location in no time.”

“But you can’t guarantee that,” Henry argued. He turned back to Hanson. “Detective, this is ludicrous. They’ve followed their agreements to the letter in each case, as well as their threats.”

“Dr. Morgan. Henry,” Valles said, holding up a hand. "I know this isn’t easy, but—”

“This is my money,” Henry cut her off sharply. “And I refuse. You won’t put Jo’s life at risk.”

Valles frowned at Hanson, who was running fingers through his hair and had begun pacing. From her office, Reece was watching the exchange quietly, and Hanson turned to her as though seeking guidance. The department floor had fallen quiet in the face of Henry’s objection, all eyes turned towards him.

This entire operation had been planned since the moment Henry had stepped forward with the offer of cash, he realized. Anger boiled over at the knowledge he had been manipulated into this corner. With a last dark look at Valles, Henry turned and headed for the elevators.

“I’ll take care of it myself,” he barked, sharp and clear enough for the entire assemblage to hear him. “I’ll be no party to this.”

After a stiff march out of the main office, Henry banged the elevator call button, seething.

“Henry! Henry, wait.”

Henry turned to see Hanson hurrying after him.

“You could have been forthcoming,” Henry accused, then bit down hard on his anger. Hanson didn’t deserve it. He was bound by duty and orders, regardless of how he felt. Henry, at least, had the liberty to refuse—a liberty he would emphatically exercise.

“Yeah, I know,” Hanson allowed, eyes shifting away guiltily. “Sorry. You never would have turned up, though. But look, you can’t go walking around New York with all this cash. At least let me go with you as far as the last block, then you can go off and do the exchange, and I’ll stay out of the way.” Hanson cleared his throat, tugging at his belt to reseat it. “I can’t do much at this point, but she’s my partner. I gotta to do something.”

Henry unbent a little, understanding the sentiment. The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. After a moment of indecision, Henry nodded.

“Very well.”

Hanson offered to take one of the bags, which Henry handed over. They stepped into the elevator and made the ride down towards the parking garage and Hanson’s car.

 

***

 

Hanson tossed the bags into the trunk as Henry slid into the passenger seat. Making a quick check to make sure Henry was looking elsewhere, Hanson threaded the miniature tracker Valles had slipped him on the way out into the seam at the bottom of each bag, moving quickly so as not to give away his delay.

That Henry didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow when Hanson returned to the car spoke volumes as to how upset and preoccupied he was about Jo. Reece had predicted Henry throwing a fit about this, and much as Hanson wanted to get Jo back, he knew what they had to do.

Hanson started the car and pulled out of the garage, feeling like Judas and wondering how he was supposed to look Henry in the eye ever again if this thing went bad. Or look himself in the mirror. He was never going to forgive himself if the next he saw of Jo was a body on an autopsy table.

 

***

 

Jo awoke disoriented, her lingering bad dreams merging into reality. She looked around the plain room, which was exactly the same as it had been when she fell asleep.

She couldn’t tell what time it was without any windows or clocks, but judging from her continuing fatigue she hadn’t slept long and it was still night. The room was silent and softly lit. When she’d finished her shower and dressed again she’d not bothering to climb under the covers, falling asleep quickly with her wet hair soaking into the feather pillow, but she was so exhausted she hadn’t cared.

Jo sniffed and wiped away tears that had come while she’d slept. When it wasn’t blunt fingers pawing through her hair with dispassionate possessiveness, or an arm to her throat until she couldn’t breathe, it was Henry’s face—blank, slack terror as he was dragged away towards the water, and the heavy splash of his body falling in.

A familiar, agonizing pain hit her stomach. Henry was dead, and she hadn’t even had a chance to say goodbye. Why didn’t she ever get to say goodbye? Was this some kind of cruel joke life had decided to play on her? It was cynical and stupid, but a childish part of her taunted her that this was what she deserved for being stupid enough to care about someone again. Losing Sean had been a lesson she’d thought she’d never recover from, and now Henry served to teach it to her all over again. And Henry wasn’t even…

He could have been more, maybe. She’s thought about it, when she’d been brave enough to let herself. But whatever Henry had been to her, she’d never figure it out now. No more bizarre chats, no more laughter, no more possible futures. The end.

Jo rolled onto her other side, curling up tight and tugging one corner of the thick comforter over her. She tried to put everything from her thoughts, listening to the beat of her heart and counting slowly, picking a slow and steady breath, until she soothed herself enough to fall back to sleep. All the victims said they’d been given space, barely spoken to, other than to be given meals by their kidnappers, then left alone. She’d take the time to rest and gather her strength.

She woke again later to the sound of the door opening, and sat up to see Oliver enter with a tray. He looked her over and sighed, setting the tray down on the floor by the bed.

“Get yourself ready for the day. Eat. There’s an exchange scheduled, and if all goes well, you’ll be home by tonight.”

Jo tried not to let hope colour her emotions, forcing herself to wakefulness by getting to her feet and bouncing on her toes a little. Oliver straightened, obviously watching her for a fight, but she made it clear she was only stretching and waking up, and he relaxed a bit.

“When is this exchange happening?”

“In a couple hours.”

“Where?”

This was as far as he seemed willing to humor her, and instead of answering he pointed to the tray on the floor.

“That’s breakfast. You should get ready for the day.”

“Right, wouldn’t want your girls to be anything less than perfect,” she said pointedly, folding her arms. She didn’t miss it when Oliver’s mouth twitched unhappily. So he _didn’t_ like his brother’s approach. Time to push it. “I saw what happened to the last victim.”

Oliver’s gaze skated away from her, travelling until it fixed on the painting, the only other bit of colour and interest in the room.

“Eat. It won’t be much longer.”

Oliver turned and left, shutting and locking the door behind him.

Jo dove for the food as soon as he was gone, wasting no time wolfing down the eggs, fruit, and toast provided. It was warm, so there was a kitchen nearby. She had to be in an apartment of some kind. The past victims had said their food was slid through a small slot in the door and they’d never seen their kidnappers. Clearly these two were improvising at this point. She wasn’t sure exactly why they thought this would be a profitable venture, worth the risks they were taking, with a makeshift setup instead of their previously well-planned system.

The food turned to ash in her mouth when she realized that Marcus quite likely expected it to fall through. She was here, not for easy money but for the probable failure—and whatever the NYPD plan was with the supposed money, it was all just stalling the inevitable. However they planned to trace the ransom would be detectable by anyone who knew what to look for, and much as she’d like to pretend, her kidnappers weren’t stupid.

Perhaps the last victim had given him a taste for the rewards of an unsatisfied deal. Jo pushed the rest of her unfinished breakfast away. The NYPD bluff was likely to fail, leaving her on her own if she wanted to survive this.

Jo looked around the room again, assessing and cataloguing her resources. The bed, with minimal bedding. Torn into strips and tied, a rope. Probably not much use as a weapon. The bed itself was too sturdy to take to pieces without being heard, and she wasn’t likely to do much other than give Marcus and Oliver splinters if she broke apart the picture frame hanging on the wall—it was too lightweight and flimsy for a club.

Jo stood and went to the bathroom ensuite. The mirror was sturdy enough that if she could smash it she’d have a makeshift knife. Not a subtle play, given that it was directly visible from the main door to the room, so she’d have to save that for the best time. Next she surveyed the array of beauty products lining the back of the counter.

 _I bet Henry could look at this stuff and build a bomb_ , she thought wryly.

She could nearly feel his presence at her shoulder, leaning over and ready to dive in with a lecture on chemical reactions. Sadly, while her mind could supply Henry’s attitude, she couldn’t dream up his seemingly bottomless wealth of knowledge. That line of thought led to places that were still too painful to go, and so she picked up a can of mousse to distract herself, turning it over in her hands.

The little warning label, a small black triangle, caught her eye. Explosive when heated. Mulling that over, she grabbed up the hairspray. Same warning, as well as flammable.

Explosives and fire—now there was something she could work with.

But first, she needed heat, a spark, something. She set the bottles down, opening the only cupboard under the sink. Yes—hair dryer. Of course, Marcus wanted the girls properly groomed, and had provided everything she’d need to fuss and preen. Jo pulled them both out and plugged them in.

The hairdryer was an industrial salon model, running hot and powerful, and Jo held her hand in front as she flipped it on. It was soon too hot to keep her hand there. She wasn’t sure if it was enough to heat a pressurized can into exploding, but it was worth a shot.

Behind Jo, the door rattled, and she jumped as it opened. Oliver stuck his head in, then came in the room. They eyed each other for a second through the en suite doorway before he spoke.

“You’re done with breakfast?”

“Yes.” Jo flipped the hairdryer off, setting it down. “Going to do my hair.”

Oliver grimaced and ran a hand over his short beard, then stooped to pick up the tray. Jo was starting to understand why the kidnappers had been wise when playing their game to keep their distance from their victims. One was far too happy to keep them, and the other felt sorry for them.

Well, the change in routine played in her favour.

“You don’t have to do this,” she said quietly. Oliver met her eye as he straightened, and she held it, despite the thrill of fear. “You don’t have to be a part of this.”

Oliver glanced over his shoulder at the open door, presumably to his brother beyond. He looked back at Jo.

“A few more hours and you’ll be home.”

“Do you really believe that’s what’s going to happen here?” she asked. “You know Marcus better than I do.”

Oliver licked his lips and looked down at the tray, which was plenty answer. Jo felt sick to her stomach, but kept it together, standing firm and keeping Oliver in her sights.

“Oliver—”

“A few more hours,” he repeated, quickly cutting her off. He turned away without looking at her again.

When the door shut and clicked, Jo let out her breath, slumping against the bathroom counter. She gave herself a second to shake out her hands and focus on calming down before she turned back to the sink and grabbed up the hair dryer.

Time to see what mischief she could manage in the next few hours without getting caught.

 

***

 

Henry walked the last block to the square in the small city-bound Brooklyn park. He made his way to the fountain and took up a station next to the lip. By him, a young boy of three or four was leaning out over the water under the careful eye of his mother, a penny clutched in his hand, and then thrown in with force, his little palm slapping the water and setting a spray of water up that made him squeal with delight. Elsewhere on benches, office workers took their lunch in pairs or alone, hopeful pigeons scattered about their feet in search of food.

As the woman pulled her child from the fountain, Henry heard a throat clear beside him. He turned and found himself face to face with a tall, bearded man, sunglasses on. He had a cap on his head, blond ponytail sticking out the back.

Blond ponytail.

Henry recalled the image of Jo slung over a man’s shoulder, the hint of hair at the bottom of the balaclava as he turned.

Henry could see the moment the man recognized him in return, mouth slackening in surprise as he straightened, his careful relaxed stance turning tense, his eyes remaining hidden behind the opaque lenses of his sunglasses. Henry could see his own startled reflection in their mirrored surface.

It wasn’t often a man came face to face with one of his murderers, and Henry found it rather disconcerting.

“I have what you requested,” Henry said finally, breaking the silence, choosing to bluntly ignore the obvious recognition between them.

The man nodded shortly, and silently stooped to pick up the bags between them, still carefully keeping an eye on Henry. He took a step back, and with rising alarm Henry realized he intended to leave without a word.

“Wait! Where is she?” The man turned back, again examining Henry with the cautiousness of someone who believed he was speaking to a dead man. Henry fought with his natural instinct to babble excuses that would only serve to draw more suspicion, or to simply flee, and steadied himself. “Where is she?”

“You know the deal,” the kidnapper returned returned gruffly. “If this is what it should be, you’ll have her back by tonight.”

Without another word he turned to go. Henry was left standing by the fountain watching his retreating back, reminding himself over and over that their pattern had held so far and trying to convince himself that they would hold to it again. Once the man was gone, there was nothing left for him to do but walk the two blocks back to Hanson’s car.

Upon sliding into the vehicle, Hanson turned anxious eyes on him.

“Well?”

“Delivered,” he said. “I believe it was one of the kidnappers who took Jo. He spoke little, but I don’t think it was the same man who was on the phone.”

“Guess they had to stick their necks out now that their middleman is gone,” Hanson said with a grunt. “What did he look like?”

Henry gave a brief description, all the while trying to dismiss the image of Jo slung over his shoulder, arms limp and swaying, as he’d walked away.

“Did you recognize him?”

Henry paused just long enough that he gave Hanson unintentional confirmation, and winced internally.

“You wanna tell me what happened yesterday?” Hanson asked as he reached for his phone, his tone casual and inviting, not pushy. When he wanted to be, Hanson could be a subtle interrogator.

“It was…” Henry licked his lips, shifting in his seat. He had no idea what to say, and he felt a cold sweat break out on his skin. “It was difficult. I’d prefer not to discuss it until Jo is back safely. They have the money, and she’ll be home by this evening.”

Hanson nodded as he pressed autodial on his phone. He shot a quick sideways look at Henry, and then turned his eyes back out the front of the car.

“Yeah, Lieutenant. Henry made the drop.” He was silent for a moment, and again another glance at Henry. Something in his attitude sent up a red flag, and Henry focused on him, ears pricked up, but only able to hear the faintest buzz of Reece’s voice on the other end. “Yeah, okay. Let me know where we need to go. Okay, be there soon.”

Hanson hung up, and when he glanced again, he met Henry’s eyes. His guilty expression was enough to tip Henry’s suspicion over the edge.

“What did you do?” Henry said, his voice hoarse.

“What I had to.” Hanson turned on the car and pulled them out of park and into the flow of traffic, his jaw set. “I put the transmitters in the bags.”

Henry was struck dumb and could only stare at Hanson. He wasn't certain if he was more shocked by Hanson's deception, or his own obtuseness for not having seen it coming.

Hanson did not look at him again for the rest of the silent ride back to the precinct.


	5. Chapter 5

Hanson hurried into the precinct, not waiting for Henry. Henry hadn’t spoken since Hanson’s confession, and the eerie quiet from a man who couldn’t keep his mouth shut for more than a minute at a time was even more difficult to bear than the furious tirade he’d expected.

Hanson squared his shoulders and plowed through the crowd gathered around the tech room, making his way to where Reece was next to Valles monitoring the transmission from the trackers. Upon seeing him enter, Reece detached herself and came over to Hanson.

“They’re still broadcasting. We’re tracking the signal into Queens right now. Three teams are a safe distance off, ready to move in when we’ve got a site,” she said quietly. “Good job.”

“Thanks,” Hanson said, running a hand over the nape of his neck with a sigh. “Though I’m not exactly feeling it, you know.”

“I know, it’s not easy.” Reece looked over his shoulder where Henry was standing in the middle of the bullpen, arms crossed, watching the tech room from a good distance with a blank expression. “How’s Henry taking it?”

“About like you’d expect,” he said.

“Damn it!”

Valles’ voice was sharp and cut through the chatter of voices, all the detectives and Major Case Squad people falling quiet at the tension in her tone. At the desk, two of her people were working frantically at their stations.

“Make sure that’s not a technical problem on our end, now!” Valles barked.

Hanson looked at the map where the the red blips, one atop the other, indicated the presence of the tracking devices in the bags of money.

 _Had_ indicated. The map was blank now.

“No,” Hanson groaned, his stomach sinking. “No, no, you’ve gotta be kidding me!”

A tense minute ticked by while Valles leaned over the backs of her two techs, white lipped, but it didn’t look like anything was coming up other than a loss of signal.

Hanson’s phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out. Caller unknown. He flashed the screen at Reece, and she beckoned for him to come into the tech room so they could track the call. She snapped a finger to get Valles’ attention and as Hanson swiped to answer the call, a tech carefully hooking it up before he answered.

“Hello?”

_“Detective Hanson. That wasn’t smart.”_

The dark, condescending tone of his voice was too much.

“Don’t you touch her, don’t you goddamn well _touch_ her!” he shouted into the phone, his thoughts blanking out with rage. “Don’t you dare!”

“Detective! Give me the phone.” Reece was pulling the handset from his ear, her other hand on his shoulder and firmly pushing him away. “Out, now. Take a walk, Mike.”

Hanson surrendered the phone with a frustrated noise and stormed from the room and through the hall. He made it to the break room and paced the tiny space for a few laps until he turned and slammed a fist into the wall as hard as he could with an angry shout. If he couldn’t break that asshole’s head, he’d break whatever was closest.

The white pain that shot through his hand was distracting enough he almost welcomed it—until it blossomed as his blind rage faded. He’d split his knuckle and it was dripping blood. He cradled his fist, hissing sharply as he winced. Stupid—really, really stupid.

“Let’s have a look.”

Henry, standing next to him. Henry grabbed a few napkins from the coffee stand area and reached out to take Hanson’s fist, gently dabbing at the blood that was starting to flow through his fingers.

“It’s fine, you don’t have to—”

“Can you move your fingers?” Henry interrupted smoothly, his tone soft with the confident bedside manner of every doctor Hanson had ever dealt with. “Open and close your hand. Good, now make a fist.” Hanson did as Henry said, wincing at the pain. “Looks like you didn’t break anything.”

“It’s fine,” he grunted, pulling his hand free of Henry’s.

“Yes, I’m sure it is.” Henry pulled out a break room chair from the round table and then turned away. He pulled the first aid kit from the wall and set it out on the table, then gestured towards the seat. “Sit down.”

Hanson reluctantly sat and let Henry clean the wound and bandage it. Henry fetched Hanson some water to go along with the ibuprofen he pulled from the kit, and then he cracked a chemical ice pack and placed it over Hanson’s fist.

“Keep that on for a few minutes.”

Hanson nodded, slumping back in his chair and staring at the blue gel pack.

“Thanks, Doc.”

“Not a problem.”

As Henry tidied up, Hanson watched him work. For lack of anything better to say—and maybe a little bit to avoid what he should say—he gestured towards the first aid kit.

“You used to do this? Working with the living, I mean?”

Henry set the gauze back into the first aid kit and nodded.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. I was a general practitioner for a few years.”

Hanson grunted his acknowledgement, and they fell into silence again. Henry returned the first aid kit to the wall and folded his arms across his chest as he leaned against the kitchenette counter. Henry’s gaze burned into him, and eventually Hanson hung his head, waving his uninjured hand.

“Go for it, say what you gotta say.”

He braced himself for it. Henry dropped his arms to his sides and came to sit across from him again. His thoughts were obviously turned inward, and after a very long pause he focused on Hanson.

“I think,” Henry said softly, “that Jo is your partner, and a police officer. As long as I have known her, that duty has come first. Whatever happens, she will understand the action you’ve taken, regardless of its outcome.”

Hanson squeezed his eyes shut against the sting. It was as close to absolution as he was going to get.

“Thanks, Henry,” he forced out.

The click of heels on the hallway floor brought their attention as Lieutenant Reece walked in. She took in Henry, Hanson’s hand, and the dent in the wall with one sweeping glance, but did not comment.

“Our three teams in the area are converging on the last known location of the kidnapper. He took a doubled-back loop just before the transmitter was destroyed, so we think he might have been close to his destination before he realized he was being tracked. We’re getting all available units over there to put eyes out on the neighbourhood.”

Hanson nodded and stood, his feet dragging, but he pushed himself to keep going. Henry joined him as they left the break room to follow Reece back to the main area. Reece didn’t say it, but they were most likely going to be looking for a body, and all of them knew it.

God only knew how Hanson was going to live with himself from here on.

 

***

 

Jo was starting to wish she’d spent her youth in Girl Scouts lighting fires in the woods rather than learning how to throw punches and shoplift with her siblings. She’d sell her soul for a lighter right now.

Her first task had been to assemble as many small bits and pieces of flammable items as she could find—paper strips from the beauty products that were labelled for oil removal, small strips of cloth pulled from her polyester blouse, strands of hair she’d pulled, and very carefully and as quietly as she could, she’d taken the watercolour painting from the wall and into the bathroom to snap the frame, working splinters from the wood.

She laid the watercolour canvas on the bathroom floor and made her makeshift campfire pile on top of it, just behind the wall and out of line of sight of the door. It wasn’t much, but it would at least keep her work hidden if her kidnappers made a casual check.

Now, all she needed was flame. She’d managed to make a few of the hairs smoke and curl with the heat of the hair dryer, but nothing else had taken. She was reluctant to keep the hair dryer on so long as to cause suspicion, but she wasn’t sure what else to do—it was the only idea she had, so she was going to run with it. It stank and was hardly subtle, but the bathroom fan was pulling most of the scent away, and so far no sign from her kidnappers that they’d smelled it.

It wasn’t enough, however. She wasn’t going to get a fire like this, she needed more heat or a spark of some kind. She looked into the barrel of the hair dryer, which was now radiating heat even in though it was off. She pulled off the cone stuck on the end, and then with a wrench managed to twist off another portion. Inside, the heating element was nearly red hot from use. Hopeful, she picked up one of the small twists of paper and held it to the heating element grid. It quickly started smoking, but it did nothing more than blacken and curl, never flaming.

“Damn it, come on,” she whispered to herself.

She fired up the hair dryer again, which was loud with the plastic casing removed, and reheated the element. She tried again, but again the new bit of paper didn’t do more than smoke. She needed something else to get it going.

Accelerant—she needed an accelerant, something—

Something flammable. Jo tossed down the hair dryer and reached for the hair spray, popping the lid off and quickly spraying a bit of paper before trying again. This time, after holding it to the metal for a second, it flamed brightly and burnt, and she dropped it hastily as it burnt down to her fingers.

“Gotcha!” she said, and sprayed another strip of paper.

This one she lit the same way, but carefully managed to get it back to the little pile of bits she’d collected, and before the paper could finish burning up she sprayed the whole pile with hairspray.

A burst of flame shot up and she had to scramble back to avoid singeing her hair, but all the bits and pieces were flaming now—not a robust fire, but fire nonetheless. Jo gave it another spritz to make sure it didn’t go out and stood, taking a second to admire her work. _Not bad for a city girl_ , she thought with a grim smile. Even Henry would have been grudgingly impressed.

Now for the next part—getting through the door. She had no idea if the wood would burn, but she had to try.

Jo approached the door, taking the hair spray with her, and was about to spray it down, trying to soak as much of it as she could to spread the fire, when she heard angry voices from the other side. She pressed an ear against the door, trying to make out what she could through the small crack between the door and doorframe.

“We have the money. Marcus, it’s good enough!”

“It’s not. The rules are in place so that they take us seriously. No one will follow them if they think we don’t mean what we say.”

“Who cares? You said we were done! She wasn’t even supposed to be here, we were supposed to be done! What are we doing? Listen to me, we take the money and go, like we planned.”

“Shut up!”

That was it, then. Whatever the NYPD game was, they’d failed. She was forfeit unless she could get out of here. With suddenly shaking hands, Jo sprayed down the door, soaking it until the can ran dry, then hurried to the bathroom where her little pile was still smouldering. She managed to shake the canister violently and get another little spray out, which was just enough to flare the pile and keep the flame going as she pulled the canvas it lay on over to the door, moving it close enough that it burned at the bottom of the door.

When it was close enough for the flames to lick at the door, it caught instantly, going up like a fireball, and Jo scrambled back, watching wide eyed as the whole door lit up like a flaming portal to hell. She got the rest of the picture frame and propped it against the door as further kindling for the fire. Maybe if it weakened the wood enough around the latch or the hinges, she could kick it down, make a good fight of it to get free.

The time for subtlety was long past, and she had to prepare herself for a fight ahead. She raced to the bathroom and, grabbing up the heavy porcelain toilet seat tank lid, hurled it against the mirror, smashing it. Using a facecloth she pried off a decent sized shard and wrapped it so she could hold it without cutting herself. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do. In her other hand she grabbed up the hair dryer. Her eyes were already watering from the smoke that was quickly filling the room, and her lungs burned.

She didn’t have to wait long. The smoke billowing from the sickly burning was filling the room—presumably leaking out into the apartment beyond—and pounding footsteps neared the room.

“Damn—damn it!” she heard from the other side, then the door rattled again and flung open, scattering bits of burning picture frame as it bounced open.

Marcus was cradling his hand, grimacing—he’d burned his palm on the door knob, heated from the fire. Behind him, a loud blaring squeal of a fire alarm. Marcus started for her, kicking aside a flickering bit of wood that was already done burning, headed for her, teeth bared in his fury. He stalked towards her with obvious intent, but Jo held her ground. When he was a few steps from her she swung the hair dryer by its cord, aiming for his head. He instinctively flinched and dodged aside. Jo ducked the other way, making a break past him to sprint for the door, slashing with the mirror shard at the hand reaching for her. She caught him on the forearm and he roared in pain, lost his balance and stumbled to hands and knees.

She made it out the door, careening and bouncing off the hallway wall outside the bedroom.

“Get back here! Oliver! Oliver!” Marcus bellowed behind her.

Chest heaving and heart pounding fit to burst, Jo fled into the main apartment, finding herself in a plainly furnished living room, blandly staged without any sign of personal touches. Oliver was on a chair in the small kitchen trying to pry a fire alarm from the ceiling, and a glass balcony door was slid aside to presumably usher the smoke out. He gaped at her as Jo fled past him for the open balcony door. She squinted at the sudden bright light. She was on a city block somewhere, Manhattan’s skyline in the distance across a river—Brooklyn, or Queens maybe, she thought. But plenty close enough to people that someone was going to hear her if she started calling out.

“Fire!” she screamed as she hit the open door. “Fire, help, _fire_!”

She screamed it over and over, got in about three repetitions before Marcus caught up to her. One hand wrapped around her body, trapping her arms to her sides, and the other slammed into the back of her head, driving it down into the metal railing of the balcony. Her knees gave out as white lights flashed in her vision, the mirror shard dropping from her loose fingers. She was too disoriented to do more than wriggle in his grasp, but her weight pulled him down to his knees.

“Shut up!” Marcus hissed in her ear. “Shut up now!”

Another blow to her head, this time a fist. Jo kicked out with her feet and caught him in the shins, but she was too dizzy to make it count. Marcus released her and she fell to the cement floor of the balcony. He reared up over her. Faintly in the background she could hear shouts from the street several floors below them. Marcus paused as he looked up out over the balcony railing. Jo tried to roll away from him but he stomped on her hip, stopping her roll, and she cried out in pain at the heavy blow that ground her bones against the cement. His face was beet-red and his mouth twisted into a snarl.

“I’m going to kill you and enjoy every second of it, you—”

He cut off as his head jerked to the side, and he went down like a collapsing building. Behind him in the doorway, Oliver stood with a gun in his hand, having clubbed Marcus against the back of the neck with a forceful enough blow to knock him out.

Jo dragged herself back from them, her head reeling and her hip shooting pain down her leg, but Oliver merely stood there, staring down at his brother’s still form.

Jo managed to get to her feet, pulling herself up by the railing and clinging to it. She was weaving on her feet and not going to make it through another fight, especially against someone with a gun, but she braced herself anyway. Sirens were already closing, growing louder, joining the voices from the street, and if she could hold out long enough for the emergency crew to make it, she knew people from the street had to have seen which apartment it was, she had to—

“No one was supposed to die,” Oliver said quietly, still looking at Marcus.

Jo held her breath, hand tight on the rail. Oliver’s shoulders were drooping like the fight had gone out of him.

“I think he liked it,” Oliver said, leaning against the door jamb. “He wasn’t like this before. I don’t know what happened, he _liked_ it. It was about money, just _money_ , and I don’t—” He closed his eyes and leaned his temple against the jamb. “He wasn’t like this before.”

He stayed like that, gun in his hand, his body blocking the door. Jo, afraid to break whatever trance he’d fallen into, stayed braced against the railing, carefully keeping in sight of the street and witnesses below.

Oliver never moved even when a fire crew broke through the apartment door, and Jo limped forward to carefully pull the gun from his hand.

 

***

 

Hanson stared at the sidewalk in front of him as he walked, the weight of the day like a ball and chain dragging at each leg. He was going to go home, plead with Karen to keep the kids occupied for the night, and lock himself in a room and try to sleep it off. It was only the afternoon but he was sure he could pass out instantly. It had been a sleepless night before, and every time he thought of Jo was a stab of guilt. Maybe at least sleep would spare him that for a few hours.

“Detective Hanson!”

At the shout, Hanson turned around to see Henry pushing through the doors of the precinct and running after him. He had a cell phone clutched in one hand—right, Hanson had left it behind. He turned back to meet Henry, who stumbled to a stop with a wide, wild grin on his face.

“They found her,” Henry gasped, out of breath, grinning like a madman.

“What?” Hanson stared at him, not quite registering. “Jo? She’s—”

“Alive, yes!” Henry was practically dancing in his eagerness, thrusting the phone into Hanson’s hand. “Queens, near the extinguished signal.”

Hanson’s shock exploded into relief, with a disbelieving burst of laughter he grabbed Henry in a hug. Henry made a loud _oof_ as all the air rushed out of him.

“Thank Christ!” He pounded Henry on the back, nearly lifting him off his feet. “They found her!”

Henry wheezed his agreement as he patted Hanson’s back in response. Realizing he was practically squeezing the life out of Henry, Hanson released him, far too delirious to care about the startled look on Henry’s face.

“Come on, let’s get over there,” Hanson said, continuing on to his car at a jog and beckoning Henry to follow. “You got the address?”

 

_***_

 

The scene was a mess when they arrived. The street was closed off and they had to walk in through the fire trucks, ambulance, and four police squad cars, plus the wall of rubbernecking citizens that had gathered on both ends of the cordoned-off area.

Henry followed as Hanson plowed a furrow through the people and ducked under the police tape after him, scanning continuously for Jo. They finally spotted her near the entrance to an apartment building, her back to them as she talked to two uniformed officers, who appeared to be taking her statement.

“Jo!” Hanson called out, waving.

Jo turned, and that’s when Henry saw the bruise forming along the left side of her head, the abrasions. Even battered and bruised, Jo broke into a glowing smile as she caught sight of Hanson—and then the expression froze when she saw Henry, eyes locking with his.

Henry’s stomach lurched and he came to an unintentional halt. In the whirlwind emotional aftermath of finding out that Jo was alive and his need to see her, Henry had all but forgotten that Jo had essentially seen him murdered. Reece and Hanson he almost felt he could fend off for a while with non-answers, but Jo…

“I knew we didn’t have to worry about you,” Hanson said, grinning widely. “That’s my partner, taking ‘em down herself.”

She tore her gaze from Henry and made a weak attempt at a smile and nod, but winced as she shifted on her feet.

“Next time give me a hand though, I won’t complain.”

“You have no idea how glad I am to see you.” Hanson dropped his voice, the worry and strain finally showing through his jovial relief. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I will be.” Her attention slid back to Henry.

Hanson noticed her distraction, and nodded to her and Henry.

“I’ll give you guys a minute,” Hanson said. “Glad you’re back, Jo.”

He patted her on the arm and left, making a beeline for the site coordinator, most likely to get the scene details. Jo stared at Henry, her mouth open, her face pale behind the darkening bruise.

“Have you been checked for concussion?” Henry asked, licking his lip and praying against hope she wouldn’t ask.

“Yeah. Nothing major. Gonna be fine.” Jo took a deep breath, and it shook. Her eyebrows drew together as she concentrated on her words, on keeping her voice consistent. “God, Henry, I thought you were dead.”

His brief moment of deluded optimism punctured, he smiled and took a step closer, trying to reassure her. Her eyes were damp, but true to Jo’s usual composure, even at the most trying of times she was a pillar of strength. Henry couldn’t help but admire her, even while he feared her persistence. His gnawing guilt grew every time he lied to her, and it was ever harder to bear. He knew he was walking a fine line every day with her, and one day he would go too far in asking her to accept the things he couldn’t—wouldn’t—explain.

“Other than having been worried sick, I’m none the worse for wear,” he said softly. “We’re both safe now.”

“How did you—“

“You’re favouring your left side notably, it looks like you took quite a blow,” Henry interrupted, putting a hand on her elbow. “You should be off your feet.”

She frowned, but let him take some of her weight as she limped to the front stair of the apartment building. She settled herself with some difficulty on the second-most bottom step and Henry sat a step below her.

“ _Are_ you okay, Jo?” he said before she could speak again. He peered up into her face. “It can’t have been easy.”

Now it was Jo’s turn to avoid him, and she looked away towards the street as she tucked her hair behind her ears. She winced as her hand grazed her bruised and abraded cheekbone, and without thinking he reached up to brush her hand aside. He put his fingers to her chin and tilted her head to the side to better see the injury.

“I’m fine,” she murmured, smiling slightly. “Don’t fuss, Doctor.”

“You’re hardly fine,” he objected, running his thumb lightly along the purpling edge of the bruise, avoiding the scrapes, which had been cleaned and treated. He lingered, and when he realized he was no longer inspecting but merely holding her face gently, his motion closer to a caress than anything else, he dropped his hand with an apologetic smile. “But you’ll live.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, a spark of her usual humour lighting them up.

“Yeah, I guess I will. Seems like miracle comebacks are all the rage today. Thought I’d try it out.”

Henry, momentarily struck speechless with a thrill of fear by her unintentionally on-the-nose assessment of his return, rose to his feet and offered her his hand in lieu of reply to her comment.

“Let’s get you home. I’m sure you’re more than ready.”

She ignored his hand and got to her feet, dusting off her trousers.

“No way, not yet. I’m going to the precinct. I’m booking these two myself.”

“Jo, don’t be ridiculous. You’re injured, you need rest.”

At that she raised an eyebrow, and Henry realized that his casual dismissal had only served to guarantee she wasn’t going to listen to his reasonable advice. He sighed as, predictably, Jo limped past him with a determined set to her features, and headed for Hanson.


	6. Chapter 6

Beyond the one-way mirror masking the observation room, Lieutenant Reece was seated opposite Oliver, collecting the details of his confession. Jo stood next to Hanson, listening to the dispassionate facts of her drugging, kidnapping, and imprisonment.

Hands cuffed to the table, Oliver paused in his story, looking away and up to the ceiling. Reece waited out his pause, and eventually he continued again, haltingly working his way through the details.

Jo folded her arms across her chest tightly, trying not to give in to the knot of fear that made her itch to leave the room and get as far away as possible. Marcus’ interview had been worse—silent, remorseless, staring down Reece like she was just another target he’d love to beat into the ground given half a chance. After an hour of unforgiving silence he’d been sent away. With all the evidence against him, his confession was a mere formality, and Oliver seemed willing enough to give them the details now that the jig was up.

“The beauty products?” Reece asked.

Oliver stared down at the table.

“He said he didn’t want the families to think they’d been mistreated. ‘All the comforts of home.’ But he got obsessive about it, was pushing it all the time—”

“You don’t have to listen to this.”

Jo jumped when Hanson spoke, and then chastised herself for her skittishness.

“Yeah, I know. I need to see it through, though.”

Hanson nodded his understanding, and they listened through the rest of the interview. Marcus, a personal insurance actuary, assessing the value of wealthy clients and privy to incredible detail of their daily lives, came up with the plan. Oliver, under his brother’s thumb for most of his life, was a real estate agent with access to properties to keep the kidnapped victims in, secure and changing each time, leaving behind no trace. Belanger, their patsy, had been their blind hire to provide an added layer of protection—a special effects makeup artist by profession, unemployed and at loose ends for money, and happy enough not to ask questions. Until Marcus had become more aggressive and threatening with the women, and gone so far as to murder the last, Oliver hadn’t objected.

“I think… I don’t know. I’m not sure if he ever intended to give her back. I mean even before the tracker, I think he was…”

Oliver stopped again, unwilling to say it. He thought Marcus was planning to kill Jo, same as the woman before. Jo closed her eyes.

“Come on, let’s get out of here. We’ve seen enough, Lieu’ll take care of the rest.”

Hanson opened the observation room door and Jo followed him, hoping the crawling sensation on her skin would leave quickly. A spooked officer was never a good thing, and if she was going to get on with her job, she’d have to get over it.

Well, she’d faced worse and lived. Jo straightened and shook herself off. Time to get home, have a long, hot shower, and a good sleep. Their case was tied up, but one question remained: Henry. He’d kept himself uncharacteristically scarce during the interrogations and Jo hadn’t yet been able to pin him down for a proper conversation.

“So what happened to Henry? How did he get away?” Jo asked Hanson. “There’s no way he should have survived, he was as paralyzed as I was. Oliver was so convinced Marcus had drowned him that he asked if Henry had a twin, too. It doesn’t make sense.”

“I dunno. One minute he’s with you at the pier being dumped, next the unies are bringing him in for streaking naked through Brooklyn Heights. Says he got lucky. The cold water ‘stimulated his nervous system’ and he managed to swim away while they took you.”

“But that’s a long run across town, and—I mean, what the hell? What is that man’s obsession with public nudity?”

“No one’s got a straight answer out of him yet. And if you ask me, I don’t think he’s ever going to tell us,” Hanson said with a shrug.

Jo was too tired to put her mind to it any further. Besides, Hanson was probably right. As with everything else involving Henry, it was likely to remain an unsatisfying story with more questions to it than answers. Didn’t mean she was going to stop wondering.

***

“You’re buying,” Jo said, picking up the drinks menu. “I know I don’t have that many pennies in the bank. You can afford a drink or two.”

It was Friday, two days after the end of the kidnapping ordeal. Jo had refused any time off, and after Henry watched her weave her exhausted way through their afternoon crime scene he’d gently directed her to the nearest restaurant for a much needed sit down and warm meal.

“Wouldn’t dream of letting you pay,” Henry chuckled. 

Henry's money, safely back in the hands of some very relieved financial advisors, was now the talk of the precinct.  Aside from a few similar teasing jabs here and there, and one sincere, quiet "Thank you, Henry," that he'd accepted with a simple nod, Jo hadn't said much on the matter. 

“And," he continued, plucking the menu from her hands with a raised eyebrow, "to save myself drinking whatever you have planned, I’ll take the liberty of ordering as well.”

“I can take care of myself, Henry.”

The sharp tone to her voice caused Henry look up from the menu, and the unhappy set of her mouth made him drop the menu to the table. He lowered his voice, reassuring her.

“I know you can. You’ve proven that many times over. I meant no slight, Jo.”

Jo sighed and then looked away, shaking her head.

“Sorry, I know. I guess I’m still working on it.”

“It’ll take time,” Henry said. On impulse, he reached out and took her hand, holding it gently. “Give yourself that time. No one can come through a trial such as you’ve faced unscathed.”

She squeezed his hand and smiled.

“Thanks.”

“Certainly.”

When she met his eye Henry found himself caught, suddenly very aware of his hand in hers, at the intimacy of their table in the corner. Jo’s smile softened and the corner of her mouth curved up. He indulged himself a moment longer, then blinked away from his focus on her mouth and pulled his hand back. He picked up the menu and returned to scanning it.

“Are you ever going to tell me what really happened that night?”

He paused, finger poised over the scotch list, as her question fell like a blow. He looked back up at her, at her large eyes, seemingly begging him for just a little honesty.

When he failed to answer, she looked away from him with a disappointed sigh. He reminded himself that her hurt at his silence was better than what she’d only see as lies and poor deception, if not total madness. However, it bothered him to be the source of more unhappiness laid at her door, especially at a time like this.

“I can only be grateful both you and I are alive, Jo,” he said quietly, with all his sincerity. “I will choose to count my blessings for that.”

And for once, he meant it. He was glad to be alive, and in her company.

She smiled ruefully and shook her head, then gestured to the menu.

“Hurry up with that order, I need a drink after a week like this.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Henry said, relaxing slightly as Jo let the matter drop, and returned to his perusal of the menu.

One day, he knew, he’d ask too much; but for now, she was here, and he’d make the most of a friendship he valued.


End file.
